


fine (really)

by a_stankova



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Cheating, F/F, Introspection, Non-Linear Narrative, Power Dynamics, Slight Mention of Blood, eve learns to take responsibility, short fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:00:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24077119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_stankova/pseuds/a_stankova
Summary: Nothing has been fine since Villanelle.
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Niko Polastri, Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Comments: 4
Kudos: 116





	fine (really)

**Author's Note:**

> A short fic while I work on longer, better things!

Eve loves Niko. Really, she does. He has been consistent for the ten years that they’ve been together; has always been gentle with her, has always laughed at her jokes, has always been considerate of her feelings.

It only drives her _slightly_ mad.

She loves him and their routine – pizza on a Friday night, monthly dinners with their friends, tending to the chickens together. It’s nice, and homely, and it’s been the same for almost a decade.

Which is fine, really.

The sex is fine, too. It’s always been pleasant, if a little predictable, but he pays attention and she does – usually – orgasm. Making love is emotional, she thinks, a shared experience; it’s what comes after the sex in the beginning, when you're married and you're settled, when you're comfortable.

Which _would_ be fine. Really. Except, sometimes, Eve just wants to be _fucked._ To collide with another person, to grab and thrust and _take_ , and be taken in return. Niko could never do that, not with her, because he loves her, wants her to be happy, to be safe, to feel loved and cherished. Apparently, there is not room inside their marriage for both of Eve’s personalities to exist.

Which had been fine. Really. She’d made her peace with it years ago.

That was, until Villanelle. 

_Nothing_ has been fine since her.

Villanelle had seen right through her from the very beginning, and maybe that’s why Eve hates her so much. Maybe Eve just hates that this woman – this cold-blooded murderer – is able to look at her and instantly know exactly what Eve is thinking, all of the time. She had set something alight in Eve, that first moment in her kitchen (her home kitchen, the home she shares with her sweet, sweet husband) – she’d pinned Eve to the fridge, and bowed her head, brushed her nose against the skin of her neck. Eve had stifled the gasp that had threatened to betray her, and craned her neck in invitation. 

And why had she _done_ that? She still thinks about that moment, the way Villanelle had glowed under her kitchen skylight, the way her grin had been mere inches from her face. She thinks about the press of the blade to her breastbone, daring, seconds from entering her and ending her life, and she remembers, with a lessening degree of horror each time, how apprehensive desire had pushed the fear from her mind.

The woman is toxic – truly, an awful person. Niko is _good_ , and kind, and her _husband._

Still, Villanelle seeps into her mind, at night, and then every second of every day,  and Eve realises that it’s not as simple as nothing being fine anymore since she’d showed up.

It’s that nothing is _enough_ anymore. Nothing except for Villanelle.

There is nothing kind or sweet about the way that Villanelle kisses her. There is nothing gentle about nails scraping along her scalp, nothing gentle about the teeth that tug and tease at her mouth and down her throat, but Eve melts against her every time – cranes her neck, presses her close, kisses her back. It’s becoming easier to ignore her instincts, the moral parts of her that scream resistance, that tell her _no, this is wrong, Niko will be home any minute._

It’s addiction, and Eve knows that. It makes her reckless, makes her stupid. When Villanelle sneaks into her home one night and corners Eve downstairs, Eve allows the hands that lift her onto the kitchen counter, allows the mouth that sears across her stomach and her hip bones. She’s so focused on the feel of it that she manages to ignore the blood that lingers on Villanelle’s fingers from her most recent kill – ignores it because when those fingers slip inside her, they are murder weapons of a different calibre, and Eve simply does not give a fuck where they’ve been before.

If anything, their plight makes Eve clench harder, makes her blood burn hotter.

Eve’s muscles ache in the time they are apart, every time. She sits in silence sometimes, reminiscent of the way her back had arched, the way Villanelle’s body had felt on top of her, the way her legs had spread wider and wider, inviting Villanelle as close as she could possibly get. She thinks of Villanelle’s mouth, far too much – Villanelle is nothing if not silver-tongued, and when she dips her head between Eve’s thighs, when her murderous fingers dig into her flesh to hold Eve down, all of Eve’s words dissolve into the same, desperate spiel, words like _yes_ and _more_ and _fuck_ that just seem to make Villanelle more determined to ruin her forever.

Eve gives as good as she gets, too. Villanelle does not submit easily, but when she does? When she lets Eve pin her down, against the wall, on the Polastri marital bed?  That’s the best part. Villanelle will struggle in Eve’s hold, fight for control, and then she’ll concede, lie back and pretend like she’s been defeated. Eve knows full well that Villanelle could overpower her at any given moment, but when they’re in the moment, lost in the throes of raw, ravenous passion, it never feels like that. More than that, Eve never feels safe when she’s with Villanelle. What she feels is something far more foreign to her, something she doesn’t think she’s ever really experienced before.

Power, she thinks. The sex is intense, it shatters Eve every time, but even afterwards, when Eve is back at her desk poring over Villanelle’s criminal file, she thinks she is able to make connections that had been hidden from her before. With the memory of Villanelle’s hands on her, she links faces and locations better than she ever has, feels an immense sense of pride every time another piece of the puzzle slots into place before her. 

She feels powerful. Like an equal in this twisted game they're playing.

Which _could_ be fine, except being equal to Villanelle means being equal to all that she is – all her dark tendencies, all her carefree desires. The thought is terrifying, as much as it is delicious, and she _hates_ Villanelle for doing this to her, _hates_ her for storming into her life, barrelling between her and Niko, consuming her mind until all she can do is drop to her knees in front of her, open-mouthed and wanting.

“What do you want from me?” she whispers one night, gasping against Villanelle’s throat as the woman, knuckle-deep in her wet heat for the millionth time, works to drive her over that familiar cliff’s edge. 

Villanelle smiles at her, and murmurs, low and sultry around her mouth:

“You came to _me,_ Eve.”

It’s true. She’d sought Villanelle out this time; left the comfort of her home and went straight to Villanelle’s hotel. Before, Eve could have defended herself – Villanelle had seduced _her_ , come to _her_ home and looked at _her_ with _her_ eyes and kissed _her_ until she was breathless. She’s been taking some comfort in the knowledge that she could blame Villanelle when it all comes crashing down – and it will, she knows it will, Niko will notice the marks one day and her life will be over and –

Euphoria claims her, transforms her, and she realises that this is _her_ fault, too, and maybe she doesn’t hate Villanelle at all.

Which…shouldn’t be fine.

But it might be. Really. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm still @a_stankova on Twitter – come say hi! :)


End file.
